


For Luck, With Love

by LadyLilyMalfoy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Romance, setlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLilyMalfoy/pseuds/LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the recent setlock photos of Mycroft and a certain someone. No spoilers, but you'll get more out of it if you know what I mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Luck, With Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Duchesscloverly](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Duchesscloverly).



> For Duchesscloverly for the April Showers Mystrade Exchange.

“I think you should wear the red one.” He had said it sleepily, sprawled across the width of their bed – still warm, but cooling quickly – and addressing the open door of the ensuite from which came the clattering of a man who really  _didn’t_  want to get up and dressed.

“The red one?” Mycroft’s response was vague and half-hearted – in the same distracted manner that he had been wearing for a good month now. Whatever was preoccupying him had been growing steadily, and Greg now found himself at the point where, unless he put a sandwich in his hand or set his shoes right by the front door, Mycroft would entirely forget about such trivial things as eating or dressing properly. In the beginning, it had been frustrating – if he had wanted a child he’d have stayed with his ex – but to fight it would have done more harm than good, and besides, Anthea assured him brightly, Mycroft was prone to such phases. It was sure to pass. Whenever that may be.

 

He slipped out of bed, careful not to draw back the covers in order to preserve at least some of the cosiness for after Mycroft had left, and shuffled over to their chest of drawers. It had been his most ambitious gift yet, the red paisley tie with its matching handkerchief, and one that Greg had dithered over for weeks before finally and decisively battling through the Christmas Eve crowds and making the purchase. “For luck,” he had murmured, taking it from Mycroft’s fingers when the last sheet of tissue paper had been sufficiently shredded, and looping it around his neck. “With love.”

The silk was elusive and it took two tries before it would stay in his hand. It was by far the most striking item in the drawer, nestled amongst the deep blues and dull wools that Mycroft generally favoured day-today, and it always gave Greg a little tremor of pride to see his contribution standing out besides them, knowing that his venture had paid off.

Mycroft raised his eyes wearily to his reflection in the bathroom mirror as Greg passed behind him. He hadn’t slept well in god only knows how long, but last he wasn’t sure if he had even drifted off at all. It had almost been a relief when the alarm had gone. Almost. Every moment felt like a mechanical effort, as though his mind and body had to have deep negotiations for every breath, every step, every flex of the fingers… There was not a single part of him prepared for today. It had been a countdown of months and weeks, and that had been fine – the exhilaration of the adventure. But now it had been reduced to days and hours, and it was too late to stop the train wreck -  inevitable, whether it goes right or wrong – not that he would if he could, it’s the right thing to do, for the greater good, and nothing worth doing can be done without sacrifice.

And if Sherlock was able to give up the thing that meant the most to him, then he could too. It was only fair. Only right.

Greg’s reflection forced a smile which Mycroft tried to return, but it was such an effort. Every movement, even one as small as a smile, seemed harder and heavier than the last. Perhaps it was good that it was about to end; at least the grief would no longer have to be hidden, even if the reason was different.  _The pain of loss_ … Mycroft wondered if the loss would be worse than the knowing he was about to lose. How could that be possible? How would he bear it?  _Could_  it be borne?

And, if it couldn’t, who would save him this time? Within hours, there would be no-one.

“Hey.”

A hand on his arm, gentle and coaxing, turned him around and moved up to press against his forehead. “Are you sure you should be going in today? I could call Anthea-”

Mycroft shook his head roughly, dislodging the hand. “No. I’m fine. I just…I didn’t sleep well. Need coffee.” He raised his chin, forcing himself to meet Greg’s gaze, creased in concern. “Really,” he added, a little softer. “You needn’t fret.”

An eyebrow quirked in doubt, but Greg knew better than to attempt an argument. At least tomorrow was Sunday – a day of rest, even for them. “Of course I fret,” he murmured, slipping the length of silk around Mycroft’s upturned collar. “You won’t let anyone else worry about you.”

Mycroft sucked his bottom lip to hide the tremble and watched Greg’s eyes follow his fingers as they worked deftly with the slick material, wrapping one end over the other until there was a smooth knot.

“For luck,” said Greg, gently easing the knot up into the crook of Mycroft’s collar. “With love.”


End file.
